La Chrysalide
by xKISMETx
Summary: In revolutionary America, the son of a french merchant is molded by the people he meets and the events that unfold around him. The threat of war looming overhead; alongside a budding patriot, he comes of age. (Rating subject to change; M for later chapters)
1. Chapter 1

**I'm back.. in black. (Pun brought to you by the SPN fandom)  
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The year was 1765; I was seven or maybe eight. I was born in France though I'm not sure where. However, I do know I grew up in a house in the country side. It may have been small, but I'd always thought it huge. The roof leaked in the fall and the heat was overbearing in the summer. In the winter the fireplace kept us warm and my nanny, a woman called Clotilde, would make bread. Papa always left in the spring. I'd thought him so important, dressing in fine reds and blues. Clotilde had always tried to explain his work to me, but I'd never understood nor did my uninhibited young mind care to.

Clotilde was a very devout woman. But her devotion was unceremonious. She'd slap me on the hand if I ate before praying or tried to avoid studying. When I misbehaved, she'd always have the same thing to say. She'd wag her lanky finger at me and caution, "Gluttony is a sin", "Only the honest are worthy of God's grace.", or "Would you risk your immortal soul to save you an hour of arithmetic?"

The threat of hell became a perfunctory warning; much like 'You'll be put to bed without dinner.'

The looks I'd receive when walking through the town or playing with other children never warranted my notice. I recall, however, one summer evening when I'd called upon a new boy to come and play. His mother had looked horrified at the suggestion. Her face morphed as though I'd asked it alright if I beat her boy with a club behind the stable. I told Clotilde of this that night while she was stirring Cassoulet. "It's because you're a bastard." She'd said, as though she were merely commenting on the weather.

My mother and father were not married and never would be. She died bringing me into the world. I, of course, knew I had a mother; boys did not just pop out of the earth. (Papa had explained sex to me in so many words.) But there was nothing to raise the question of who she was; no portraits, mementos, or even stories. Papa must not have liked to talk about her; I never asked. I suppose I'd never thought to ask after her because I'd always had Clotilde. She was strict but she was also kind and intelligent. I'd looked to her as a mother even if I'd never granted her the title. I wonder if it is a shame then, that I no longer can recall her face.

Barring those years, my story begins on a spring morning when I was seven (or maybe eight). I'd come in from feeding the chickens and was eating the apple Clotilde had given me when he strode in, throwing the door open as if it weighed no more than one of the feathers clinging to my pale hair.

My father, tall and blonde, was considered very handsome. He was Clotilde's contradiction. Never had I seen Papa at mass, nor bow his head in prayer. He approached everything with a sort of carefree humor that seemed recalcitrant. He was what Clotilde called 'revolutionary'. The dreams and plans he drowned drunkenly on holidays were nonviable to his ability. Or, they had been.

Papa told me that we were to go on a grand adventure; that we would begin a new life in a land of opportunity. He'd made a great deal of money with some wise investment. All of my belongings fit into a single trunk; Papa's in two. I'd never seen a ship before, not in person anyway. It was larger than I expected. Within the first week on the ship, I was growing restless. I was not used to being confined and it was uncomfortable. Even sleeping below deck, water would trickle through the cracks and the constant rocking from side to side made many nauseous. There was no private place to relieve one's self and the chamber pots were only emptied once a day. Barrels of water were brought on board when the Ship had sailed from France, but after a week Papa had refused to allow me to drink it. He'd said it was no longer safe after remaining stagnant for so long. It was on the ship that I had my first taste of alcohol. It was bitter and burned my throat. Clotilde had always said that alcohol was the devil's water and the only exception was sacramental wine.

"How is it?" There was a playful lilt to his voice, his brow arched inquisitively.

"It's fine." Papa gave me a worried look and I, wanting to appear mature merely shrugged it off. Though the tears in my eyes must have been a giveaway, he said nothing and I quickly downed the rest of it. Alcohol brought on a sort of deliria. The ship seemed to sway far more than usual and by noon, I was bent over the ship's railing emptying my breakfast into the Atlantic. When I saw Papa later that day, my stomach must have been obvious on my face because he laughed until his stomach hurt.

It took roughly a month and a half to get to America. We'd bathed in sea water and hadn't changed our clothes to avoid ruining another set. The smell was horrid but it grew on me, much like rum.

We finally arrived in the port town of Charleston. I imagined that it must have been what Paris was like, yet cleaner. There were more people than I could count. The buildings- whether they were homes or stores- were taller than I thought possible. It seemed far more alive, everyone walking briskly as though they had somewhere to be. The women were dressed in fancier dresses than I'd seen but the men seemed to have the same style that those in France had, with the exception of a few who accompanied women in the more elaborate dresses. A whistle caught my attention and I turned. During my ogling, Papa had already procured a carriage and secured our trunks to it. I practically hung out the window as we rode down the street, awed at the difference.

A man standing on a pedestal was waving his cane around and preaching boisterously; behind him stood a row of dark skinned men. They had collars like dog's wore made of metal around their necks and they were shackled together by the ankles. They looked rather angry and I'd thought that perhaps they'd committed a crime. "Why,"

"They're just slaves."

That wasn't what I was going to ask, but there was finality to Papa's tone I didn't want to test. The rest of the ride was spent in silence. The carriage came to a stop in front of a large, rose coloured home. It was two stories tall and made of brick. Curtain's hung in the second story window, a bright white and complete contrast to the dark wood framing them. I looked to papa but he was busy helping two dark skinned men unload the trunks. The door was wide open and I took that as an invitation, taking the stairs. The floor gleamed and caught the light from the doorway and I marveled at it, my mouth falling open. The walls were bare but the first room to my left was huge, big enough to fit two rooms inside it. A sofa and two chairs sat in the middle, surrounding a small table that featured a floral teapot and a vase of roses.

Cautiously, I ran my hand over the ornamental pieces atop the fireplace. The stone was cold beneath my fingertips and the I could see my reflection in the trimmings.

I wandered through an adjacent door and found the kitchen. There was one door leading from the kitchen into the dining room and only one door leading from the dining room to the hall I'd been in. I'd walked in a circle.

"Be careful going up!"

I heard Papa yell at me as I ran up the stairs but didn't look back. There'd been only one floor in our old house. The upstairs hall was much longer and there were many more rooms. The first on my right that I opened was more like a cupboard so I closed it and went onto the next. The second door was a room about half the size of the foyer downstairs. A bed sat against the far wall, beside the window. And a small nightstand sat beside it. What would be my wardrobe stood against the wall opposite the bed. I made a bee-line for the large window, recognizing the white curtains. My suspicions were confirmed as I peered out of it and down to the street, watching the two dark men unload the last trunk.

I was taken completely off guard and shrieked as I was hefted into the air. The melodic drone of Papa's laughter as he tickled me was less of a reassurance and I did my best to look angry even at his contagious gaiety, struggling in his arms. He relented only after my face was flushed.

"What do you think Mathieu?" I couldn't tell if he meant the house of the town but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking out the window, a wistful smile playing at his lips.

"I don't like it." That caught his attention and he squinted at me for a moment before setting me on my feet. He heaved a sigh, his brows pulling together as he dropped to a squat in front of me.

"I know it's a lot to take in, but this will be good for us. This way, I can work from home and won't have to travel between France and the Americas. And there are plenty of children for you to play with. Just give it some time and if you don't warm up to it w-"

"Papa," I stopped him. "Je l'aime." That was a stretch, but clearly what he wanted to hear. His face broke out into a grin and he patted me on the head before departing. I listened until I could no longer hear his boots on the stairs and turned back to the window, climbing onto the windowsill.

Charleston came alive at midday.


	2. Chapter 2

The foyer was awash with colour. Rolls of fabric lined the walls, stripped and spotted. The sunset and the ocean were draped over our yellow damask sofa. Lengths of cloth that rippled like water were draped over every available surface, as if Papa planned to fit all thirteen colonies with new clothes. My face must have been moved by the spectacle because Papa's laugh rang out and I looked to see him emerge from the kitchen, holding a length of cloth the colour of wheat before him.

"Beautiful, no? It comes from china; it's quite popular. Feel."

Papa came closer and I grabbed the end of it, petting it curiously. It was smooth and cool to the touch. I brought it to my face and rubbed my cheek against it, wondering what it would be like to sleep on something so fine. "It's soft." 

"It's silk. " He rolled and folded it neatly before setting it on the chair nearest him. Papa took a knee before me and buttoned my vest before untucking my collar. I didn't like the way the ruffles tickled my chin and wished I could have my old clothes back, even if they smelled like vomit and sea water. "There now, don't you look handsome? Are you excited for your first day of lessons?"

"Why can't I learn from Clotilde? When is she coming?" I turned wide violet eyes up to Papa, trying to appeal to his weaker nature. His face, however, took on a hard set as if he was steeling himself.

"I've told you. Clotilde won't be living with us. You're a grown boy Mathieu; you don't need a nurse maid anymore."

"But Papa-"

"Don't, Mathieu. Be thankful I found you a qualified tutor. I'd walk you myself but I have a business partner coming over. Do you know how to get there?"

I nodded solemnly, my eyes downcast. I wanted to argue, but I didn't want to encourage Papa's ire. He'd never hit me before and I'd like to keep it that way. But I couldn't accept that Clotilde was gone. I didn't know how Papa could stand to just brush her off as though she were so easily replaced. But Papa had never had her nurse him to health when he caught ill or watched her patch his clothes. Papa hadn't been as close to her as I was. In a way, I feel this was the day I truly lost my mother. But I forced myself to bare it like an obedient boy.

"Good boy." My reward was a kiss on the head and a hand guiding me out the door. "Behave!"

I didn't need to be told. I would never cause trouble for my tutor, especially not someone Papa was paying so much money. At least, I thought it was a lot of money.

My tutor was Sir. Arthur Kirkland. He was a plantation owner that lived just a leap and a bound to the west of Charleston. He grew cotton but also sold hay, soybeans, and even tobacco. His was not the largest or the wealthiest land, but it was closest to the market and he made a good deal of his money at the expense of impatient merchants who were either in a tight spot or didn't want to make the trip further northwest.

There'd been farms in my hometown, but nothing to compare to the rows and rows of crops that lined either side of the dirt road leading to Sir Arthur's prodigious home. They stretched as far as the eye could see. Every now and then a dark back could be seen hunched over. A man holding what looked like a riding crop tipped his hat to me and smiled.

I knocked on the door thrice and took a step back as I heard the call of, "Coming!" before the fall of footsteps alerted me to the man's approach. Standing in the doorway was a dark skinned man, although not quite as dark as the men working the field. His hair was tied back in tendrils that looked suspiciously like ropes. He simply stared at me for a long moment before he took me up by the collar and started shaking me.

"You think yous so clever, dontcha? His lordship's gonna have a cow at you! Missin' yer breakfast and runnin' off before doin' yous work! You thinks I just cook fer fun? " He hounded at me. I was carried down the hall by the scruff of my neck, stuttering objections.

"Y-you must have m-!"

Even though I was shouting, he didn't seem to hear me and knocked on a large oak door before letting himself in at the calm, "Enter." I was dropped at the threshold and the man who spoke with a lisp and a slight Spanish accent pointed a meaty finger at me.

"Looka what I found on the porch, Sir. Alfred done showed up after Miss Rachel finished cleaning the stables."

The first thing I noticed about the man I assumed was Sir. Kirkland was his eyebrows. The second thing I noticed.. was his other eyebrow. Oh. He was tall like Papa but green eyed. He wore the lines of a serious man around his eyes and mouth. Sir Arthur stared at me much like the botchy cook had, his mouth floundering for words. "Alfred?" He looked between me and the chair before his desk. Someone peered around it.

They'd confused me for this boy, and it wasn't hard to imagine why. Alfred, as I would learn, was Arthur's stable boy. He was a tan, sandy haired boy covered with freckles, perhaps eight or nine. I could not see the resemblance. We were both blonde but I felt that was where our similarities ended. The man, Carlos, blubbered an apology to me, looking ashamed of himself for having manhandled me so. I tried to smile reassuringly, but that was rather hard with three pairs of eyes boring into me.

"Who are you?" It was Sir Arthur who asked. He looked like he'd eaten a sour grape and judging from the way Alfred shrunk into his chair, I deduced that we must have interrupted a lecture.

"I'm Mathieu." His eyes lit up with recognition and his mouth fell open. Sir Arthur rounded his desk and forced a smile for me.

" I am Sir Arthur Kirkland. It's a pleasure to meet you; terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. Carlos, could you show Mathieu to the drawing room? I'll be along after I finish with Alfred here."

Carlos gestured for me to follow him and I spared Alfred a second glance and followed after the burly cook.

My lessons with Sir Arthur were far different from my lessons with Clotilde. His primary focus was arithmetic. Not surprising considering his work, but tedious. We read from the bible for a few hours and he had me practice my letters but nothing too advanced. I suppose he was just getting a feel for me; trying to understand my scope of knowledge as it was to avoid teaching me what I'd already been taught. When midday came around, I was informed that my lesson was over and was escorted to the door by a lovely young slave who wore red ribbons in her hair and spoke with the same accent Carlos had.

I'd only made it down the steps when I was- for lack of a better word- accosted by the boy who supposedly wore my face.

"Oi!" He'd called, from the first branch of an apple tree before promptly swinging down from the branch. "Just where are yew goin'?" He walked with a confident swagger, polar to the boy who'd cowered in Sir Arthur's study. But then, I wasn't held in such high reverence.

"..Home?" I blinked at him evenly, taking a step back as he invaded my personal space. He didn't seem to notice my unease and continued as if I hadn't even spoken.

"Yew can't just go 'ome right after lessons." I couldn't? "You're new, aint yew? I haven't seen you about."

"I ju-" I barely had time to open my mouth; Alfred didn't seem to want to allow me to get a word in edge wise.

"I've ne'er seen a boy wearin' ruffles 'n stuff. What'a yew do when they get dirty? Don't yew 'ave any real clothes? That's a terrible shame, that is." He seemed to have decided on his own that I didn't own any proper clothes; Alfred's definition of proper being an old pair of breaches that were more patches than what they'd been when new.

"If yer gonna be learnin' from Sir Arthur yew should know, even though 'e's strict, 'e's the smartest man east of the Ashley River. 'E came to America with nothin' but the stuff on his back and built this 'ole place all by hiself!" Alfred gestured to the plantation and Sir Arthur's mansion grandly before placing his hands on his hips.

"That's really impressive." My response must have pleased him because Alfred grinned at me, asked when I'd be back and, after receiving my answer, ran off.

. . .


	3. Chapter 3

...

Alfred was Sir Arthur's stable boy and house servant. He had a room upstairs apart from the slaves but not in the main wing. Alfred liked fatty foods like stuffed duck and fried eggplant (and beer) but he didn't like wine or any of "that yucky green stuff". I don't know what I did to inspire Alfred's undivided attention but he always seemed to be there. He'd meet me on the porch when I arrived and talk my ear off until Carlos chased him away with a broom and the threat of "No supper if yous don't do yer chores!" And he would always be there waiting near the porch after my lessons ended. I learned that Alfred, although very outgoing, didn't have many friends. It wasn't hard to imagine. Alfred could be a little too outgoing at times.

Carlos was not one of Alfred's few friends. In fact, it was as though the cook despised Alfred. I'd deduced this from all the times he confused me for Alfred. He was all too comfortable with berating and manhandling Alfred. But I couldn't condemn Carlos for this. Alfred made a habit of tracking mud through Carlos' kitchen and sneaking food from the cupboard.

Because of this, I'd assumed Alfred was lonely and decided it couldn't hurt to listen to him. Listening was all one could do with Alfred because he never stopped talking.

It was a week after my first session with Sir Arthur that our relationship reached a new level. Directly after I'd finished my lessons with Sir Arthur, Alfred came upon me with a proposition. He pulled me aside the second Sir Arthur left the room and whispered conspiratorially into my ear.

"Yew wanna go on an adventure?"

Alfred was not normal. I decided this when he took my by the hand without permission and began dragging me (yes dragging) down the road. Alfred was unnaturally strong for a boy of- "How old are you?"

"I'll be eight next winter, I will."

He looked very proud at announcing this, so I remained quiet as to my own age. It was a shock to learn that Alfred was a whole year my junior. He had a loud personality and an even louder voice. He radiated confidence and seemed as comfortable as any adult in his own skin.

Our 'adventure' led down the backstreets and alleys of Charleston, a place I'd been completely unaware of for an entire week. At first glance, the town seemed lovely. It was well kept and very high profile but that was only where Papa and I lived, as I would soon learn.

These buildings were older and many were built of wood, rotten and failing. Decrepit tenements lined the alley, patched walls falling apart, slate and thatched roofs missing entire pieces. Men and women, dressed in rags and patches and nothing like those who strolled beneath my window on Sunday afternoons, gathered aimlessly on stoops. Drunken porters lurched onto our path at random but Alfred maneuvered around them effortlessly. He seemed more at ease here than he had sitting before Sir Arthur's desk in a velvet chair.

" 'Ere it is." Alfred whispered to me as we came upon a shack. I eyed him warily as he pushed a board aside and crawled through. I looked around and, only after his harsh whisper floated to me through the wall between us, hastily followed him under.

It was very hard to see because of the blackness and the heavy pall of smoke. It was also difficult to breath. A light crept through the far wall of the cubbyhole of a room Alfred had led me into. Beside it, I could see his face, eager and curious. He looked to me and I crawled over. Not because I could not stand up in the space, but because Alfred's secretive demeanor gave me the instinctual urge to stay low. I joined him next to the hole in the wall and peered through at his beckoning, heeding his silent command to stay quiet.

Below us, in what looked like a basement, men sat at a table playing cards. A fence that stretched up farther than I could see from my point, split the room in half. Directly below us, chickens were scratching at rock and clucking furiously at each other. I didn't understand what was so secretive about it until Alfred began to push the boards aside, leaving a space big enough for me to crawl through if I wished- and I didn't. But rather than feed me to the chickens as I feared was Alfred's original initiative, he clucked at them and clicked his tongue. I looked to the men playing cards worriedly, fearing what they might do to us if we were caught. However, they didn't seem to notice Alfred's horrible imitation.

I was beginning to fear for Alfred's sanity when a chicken joined us, flapping her wings violently. Alfred clamped a hand over my mouth to silence my cry of surprise before it could meet the air. He grinned like the cat caught the canary and another chicken soon joined us. Alfred crawled back the way we'd come and I followed him out. After I emerged, he pushed a crate in front of the board to hold it open.

Chickens trickled out onto the street slowly at first but before long, they were flying out, rushing down the alley with loud joyful clucks and sweeps of their wings. When a shout rang out from the alley to my left, I realized that the men must have taken notice of the swift emigration of their birds. Alfred laughed jovially and tore off at an impossible speed. I followed his example and close on his heels although the men seemed more preoccupied with saving their chickens than catching us.

"Yew bloody half-breed!"

We didn't stop until we were blocks away. Alfred sagged against a crate and laughed until there were tears in his eyes. I merely panted and watched him wipe them away with torn, stained sleeve. "Did Yew see the looks on their faces? They'll be hurtin' on that for a while!" I let him enjoy himself before speaking up.

"What was that for? Won't we get in trouble?"

Alfred brushed me off with a 'pshaw!', waving me away as if I were a fly. "They're always taken things they ain't s'posed to from those poor folk in the alley. It's ma job as the hero to stop 'em!" He declared, jerking a thumb at himself and puffing his chest out. "I ain't never been caught. And they ain't got no proof we did nothing. 'Sides if they try to do anythin' Arthur'll just put 'em in their place."

"You think an awful lot of Sir Arthur." He seemed to have been taken off guard but covered for himself easily enough.

"Well yeah. Sir Arthur is like a father to me. 'E took me in and gave me food and clothes and 'e didn't even have to. He's a good man like that." I watched Alfred for a moment before looking down at myself. I was filthy and Papa would have a fit. The sky was fading into the darker hues of night and I thought it was about time I headed home; Alfred too.

As we were walking home and before we went our separate ways, Alfred made an announcement out of the blue.

"I like yew, Mathieu. Yew an me, we're gonna be good friends." I didn't know what to say but Alfred watched my expectantly. After a moment or two of silence, he stopped and stared at me hard for a long while. "What's-a-matter? Yew don' wanna be my friend or somethin'?"

My eyes went wide and I shook my head quickly, waving my hands to discharge his assumption. "No! No, I want to! We can be friends. I want to be friends." His face brightened and he gave me a warm smile.

Alfred and I split at the fork that led both to the upper end of town and out of it completely, Alfred waving at me wildly. I returned the gesture with a small smile of my own.

The second I walked through the door, Papa leaned out of the kitchen holding a glass of milk. The glass hit the floor and shattered the second he saw me, his eyes going as wide as dinner plates. Our French maid and cook, Louise, made a sound like exasperation. Papa came baring down on me, his jaw slack and arms open wide.

"Mon Dieu! Mathieu, what happened?! Were you attacked?" He was far too presumptuous and looked ready to go on the war path, likely already cursing my imaginary assailant to the same hell all naughty boys went to.

"Nothing happened Papa. Alfred and I were just playing." I decided it best not to tell him what we'd really gotten up to. I was rather fond of Alfred and I didn't want Papa thinking he was a bad influence (even though he was) and barring me from him. "I'm sorry I got dirty, I'll go and wash up before dinner." Without giving him the chance to ask questions, I rushed up stairs.

...

"What's a half-breed?"

I brought up the question over supper and I heard Papa choke on his soup, the spoon clattering against his bowl as he dropped it. He looked at me prudently and I could tell he was working hard to skirt around the subject. He coughed into his hand and started with the customary, "Well… A half-breed is someone who is half of two races. Usually African and European." He sipped his wine delicately and folded his hands beneath his chin, peering down at me. "Where did you hear that?"

I considered lying but that left a bad taste in my mouth, and Papa could probably explain it better if he understood where it was coming from. "A man in the street called Alfred a half-breed. He said it like it was a bad thing."

"Some people consider it a bad thing." Papa clarified, thoughtfully rubbing the stubble on the tip of his jutting chin. "But it's not, really, in my opinion. True love knows no boundaries and sometimes children are born from such love. It's the way a person acts that defines who they are, not their lineage."

"I think Alfred is a good person." I don't know what possessed me to say it, but I felt it needed to be noted. Papa smiled, pat my head fondly, and agreed.

"I do too." This made me raise my brows at him, my spoon pausing at my lips. I turned my eyes up to him disapprovingly and he quirked a brow of his own.

"You've never met Alfred." Was my argument and he laughed hard, slurping a mouthful of his soup down.

"True, but you're an excellent judge of character."


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't run so fast!" I tried to shout after him, but my lungs were burning with effort. Try as I might to pursue him, Alfred was far too fast. He darted between and around the skirts of ladies and legs of men, weaving through the crowd as effortlessly as he did the dry cotton stalks on his plantation home. I however, was less graceful and stepped on more than a few toes. His sandy hair blended well into the earthy tones of the fashion and I found it hard to keep my sights on him. My shoes clapped against the groaning planks of the port's dock. When I finally caught up, Alfred was standing with his hands proudly on his hips, staring up at a large cargo ship.

"Look a' 'er!" Alfred proclaimed. Ships were nothing odd in Charleston, and beyond the size (only slightly larger than usual) and the elaborately carved banister, I could find nothing particularly interesting about it. "Arthur said it was comin' straight from Florida. Can yew believe?" He whistled low, a feat I had yet to master myself. "She's a beau'y." I noticed Alfred's lapse in speech but chose not to point it out. Usually, he was so very good about speaking, but when he was excited he made mistakes. Of course, it was hard to beat old habits, even with a tutor as strict as Sir Kirkland.

At first, they had been short sessions between Alfred and I under the spruce tree in the woods behind Sir Arthur's home. Alfred, for all his gruffness, was actually quite the diligent student. I taught him his letters using the primer Sir Arthur had written up for me and in turn, Alfred taught me how to fish and climb trees. One day, as we had been going over how to write his name, a shadow fell over the pages at our feet and nervous eyes had turned up to meet the hard gaze of sir Arthur himself, who looked out of place among the sticks in his fine suit. His posture was so intimidating however; it would take a brave man to snicker.

"What are you two doing?" It was obvious what we were doing and I knew from experience that when an adult asked what you were doing even though they could clearly see, it meant what you were doing was wrong.

"I'm learnin' ma letters Arthur!" Alfred's face had been so impeccably earnest and happy that only a heart of stone could resist and I watched Arthur's stern expression wilt.

"And what do you want to learn those for?" He sounded less hostile then and more curious, going so far as to kneel to our eye level. I was practically invisible to them.

"So Oi can read." Alfred said it with a touch of incredulity, both brows arching so high one disappeared beneath his parted bangs.

"What reason do you have to read Alfred? You're a farm hand."

"Oi won' always be a farm hand!" Alfred had shouted back so defiantly even Sir Arthur looked shocked, taking a moment to steady himself. I watched several emotions play over Sir Arthur's face. The first skeptical, then thoughtful, and finally pleased. Sir Arthur's voice was calm and even a bit kind, a small genial smile playing at his lips.

"Very well."

In the beginning, I suspected Arthur was merely humoring Alfred until Alfred's interest in education was eclipsed by some other flight or fancy, but I was proven very wrong when Alfred first attempted to skip a lesson. Arthur had had Carlos hunt Alfred down and he had pulled Alfred into the adjoining room himself. Alfred had been dealt a stern lecture and joined me in the drawing room with puffy red eyes. I knew he'd also been whipped by the way he winced when he sat.

Alfred had to learn at a slower pace than I and our lessons were separate, but Alfred learned fast and he was far better at math than I, so we often shared arithmetic. Alfred also lived with Sir Arthur however, so I couldn't be sure if he was perhaps taking night lessons as well. I can't say exactly when because it happened over a lengthy lapse of time but Alfred's language became much less coarse and the way he pronounced some words were near eloquent.

"She is." The agreement came not from me, but from a man dressed in flashy reds and a feathered cap standing beside me. His complexion was darker than civilized men and his accent was eerily familiar of Carlos'. His sudden appearance frightened me and I jumped away, but he didn't seem to notice, looking straight through me to Alfred. "You like what you see _chico_?" My apprehension was washed away as he flashed us (or Alfred) a bright smile, green eyes dancing with mirth. "_La Mariposa_ was built here in Americas, you know. Cost quite a crop but worth it, _si_?"

So this ship really was from Spanish Florida. Papa had warned me about the underhandedness of Spaniards and talked up a storm about them when under the influence- all bad things of course. I was quick to put Alfred between me and the stranger, but subtle. Alfred took a surprised step back with me. "Ah no, I scared him!" The man exclaimed worriedly, but was distracted by a crash. "_Oye!_ What do you think you're doing? _¿Es difícil de manejar cajas? Inútil_!" He marched past us, coat flapping in the salty breeze and arms flailing angrily. Alfred stared after him with wide eyes and an open mouth. That merchant was quite the character.

That merchant was at my house. Alfred had abandoned me after finding Arthur's house slave buying in the market place. He'd gone with to help her carry what she was instructed to buy and I, having been left to my own devices, returned home only to be stopped dead in the parlor door. I hadn't noticed the feathered hat hanging in the hall but it would be impossible to miss the tan man in the embroidered scarlet jacket sitting in my living room sharing a cup of tea with Papa.

"Ah! Mathieu, come and meet _monsieur Fernandez_. Antonio, this is _mon garcon_, Mathieu." Papa gestured to me and I stepped into the room, inclining my head politely as I fiddled nervously with my lower vest buttons.

Antonio's eyes lit up, a glimmer of recognition in them. "Jeanne's boy?" But no recognition for me. He didn't seem to remember having met me on the docks, but this didn't surprise me. His inquiry surprised me and I perked up at hearing my mother's name, looking between Papa and Antonio expectantly. Any hope of learning something new of her died as Papa's expression soured and he changed the subject.

"How's your tea _Antoine_?" I had yet to be dismissed so I took a seat on the couch across from where Antonio was sitting. Papa, sitting in his favorite chair, gingerly sipped from his own cup. Louise mde to pour me some as well but I shook my head minutely with a thankful smile.

Antonio seemed to catch on to Papa's hesitance and played along. "Ah, bien. It's delicious thank you. What leaf is it?"

Papa laughed haughtily. "_Dieu_, if I know! I'm hard pressed to pay for any leaves lately. What with the new taxes."

"You say taxes? I thought it was only for stamps?" Papa shook his head at Antonio, looking both amused and annoyed.

"Oh no, they did away with that. And thank God for it! People were near to losing their heads before I arrived here. Not even a year passed and those Brits have already devised a new way to wring us of any profit. Tea, lead, oil, paper… Just the necessities." Papa and Antonio shared a laugh but I found it hard to see the humor in their discussion. "You know, just the other day, Eve, a lovely girl I met at the market was telling me about how a rambunctious group of boys had broken her parlor window." It was a good thing I had denied the tea, or I would have choked on it at that. "But when she went to pay for a new frame and the glass to replace it, she found herself short five pounds!"

Antonio shook his head disapprovingly. "That's shameful. It's the war costs, I believe. Someone has to pay the debts." A sigh left Antonio's lips and he bent forward to gingerly set his cup down before straightening with a smile. "Now, we will get to the business?" Papa nodded and then looked to me, waving his hand.

"Run along upstairs Mathieu. _Antoine_ and I have product to discuss." I slid off the couch, nodded my head politely and left them, pausing in the archway just long enough to spy Antonio passing Papa a bundle that he unwrapped to reveal leaves that looked nothing like the common tobacco. He sniffed them tentatively before nibbling the end of one dried stem. I was curious but knew when I was unwanted. I went upstairs.


End file.
